Orient-express Still Provides Luxury On Wheels

LONDON — First there was Hercule Poirot. Then there was James Bond. And then there was ... me?

Yes, me. At long last I had something in common with both Agatha Christie's dapper detective and Ian Fleming's invincible agent: I had ridden the Orient-Express.

The Venice Simplon-Orient-Express: That very name stirs images of adventurous and romantic railroad journeys in Europe and the Far East - journeys taken not only by my fictional heroes but by real-life royalty, not to mention spies like Mata Hari. But nowadays, while you certainly can still take those trips, you really don't have to go far to savor the amenities. A three-hour scenic luncheon ride that began and ended in London's Victoria Station - legendary in itself - provided the proper introduction to one of the world's great trains.

The excitement was evident even before the passengers, some 200 of them, boarded the umber-and-cream British Pullman carriages that are used for the day trips from London. Cameras clicked as the passengers posed with stewards. "Would James Bond have posed?" I asked myself. "No, and neither will I."Instead, I retired to a plush chair in the waiting room and thought about the history of the line.

The Orient-Express began in 1883. Within a few decades, its Paris-Venice route became known as the world's most luxurious train trip - the favorite of elegantly garbed lords and ladies - reaching the height of its success in the 1920s and '30s. Then along came air travel.

By the 1970s, some of the magic of the Orient-Express was disappearing along with a lot of its passengers. The service was discontinued in May 1977, but just a few months later, the present owners began scouring the marshaling yards and sidings of Europe for original carriages from the service's most opulent period, between the first and second world wars. The renaissance was under way, with 35 cars eventually being extensively refurbished. In May 1983, the beautifully (and expensively) restored carriages made their inaugural run from London to Venice via Milan, Italy.

All the original glamour appeared intact as I boarded the Pullman. Inside, the carriage was decorated with polished paneling of rosewood, ash and mahogany. The train moved gracefully out of the station, champagne was served, and away we went at noontime, on a trip called "Lunch in the Garden of England."

No, it isn't always drizzly in England. The sun was shining as the Orient-Express made a pleasantly pastoral journey, past cows, sheep and trees - lots of trees - as well as a few large white wooden crosses, placed mysteriously in the fields. Before the trip was done, we would pass Kent, with its apple orchards; Rochester, which is Dickens territory; and Canterbury. Visible from the train window, in fact, was Canterbury Cathedral.

There was scenery inside the train, too, as I strolled from car to car, indulging my curiosity. There were about a dozen carriages, each with a history and decor of its own and each bearing a name. Mine was Cygnus, sometimes used by royalty and visiting heads of state and decorated with Australian walnut panels, mirrors and antiquated prints. A car named Vera, on the other hand, had an African veldt motif, with a wood-inlaid design of antelope leaping between palm trees. A plaque in each car tells its history, and so I learned that Vera was hit in an air raid at Victoria Station in 1940 as England withstood the hell of Nazi bombing. (On a lighter note, I found myself chuckling at a quaint sign in the restroom that admonished: "Gentlemen, Lift the Seat.'')

My fellow passengers, speaking in a melange of accents and languages, were a source of fascination, too. When not part of a tour package, this excursion costs $215 per person, so many take the trip for special occasions. Birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated on the Orient-Express, and marriages are proposed.

In one car, a couple sat with hands intertwined and eyes locked on each other. Both were dressed in the kind of clothes that passengers may have worn during the train's glory days; she sported a large floppy hat, and he wore a dazzlingly ornate vest. In another car, a group of women were alternately sipping wine, giggling and singing, and I decided I'd best move on. Besides, the meal was being served, and a memorable meal it was.

The stewards, dressed in white jackets with gold epaulets and blue lapel trim for this particular trip, presented a choice of wines and then the following: courgette (zucchini) and mint soup, terrine of fresh and smoked salmon, cold roast fillet of Scotch beef with horseradish cream, bean salad, three-leaf salad and potatoes in mustard butter.

Dessert was a pear tartlet with apricot sauce and cream, followed by English and continental cheeses with biscuits and grapes. And that was followed by coffee, mint chocolates and an after-dinner liqueur.

The train rolled along, with more to see out the window: schoolboys in short pants, golfers and even a bit of American-style graffiti. When it was over, there were thank-yous and goodbyes from the staff. For all passengers, it was, at the very least, a pleasant afternoon. For some, it was a true occasion. And for me, it was the achievement of one of my life's goals: Like Hercule Poirot and James Bond, I had ridden the fabled Orient-Express.